


An Unusual Arrangement

by HisAngelThursday



Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Disaster Tommy Shelby, Bisexual Tommy Shelby, Bottom Tommy Shelby, Dinner Date, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff, Humiliation, Judaism, M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Outdoor Sex, Picnics, Protective Alfie Solomons, Protective Siblings, Rough Sex, Spanking, Tommy and Ada are the family bisexuals, Tommy is a flustered sub, Top Alfie Solomons, Verbal Humiliation, alfie asks tommy on a date, but he likes it, for context, in his own socially unnaceptable way, tommy isn't used to someone else being in control, who hasn't realized he's a sub until now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24142351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisAngelThursday/pseuds/HisAngelThursday
Summary: Tommy does a deal with the most dangerous man in Camden Town, and expects to adhere to some demands.He doesn't expect one of those demands to be a dinner date.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Gangster Idiots in Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756609
Comments: 98
Kudos: 453





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my "Idiots in Love" AU -- for the longest time, I've wanted to start at the beginning and show how they met. More plot and less smut than usual, but smut is coming! Also, SO much fluff.
> 
> For context, though it may not be immediately apparent, this is a modern AU, to bypass period-typical homophobia. I don't go into it too much, as it's not that relevant to the story, but Alfie and Tommy are still gangsters and were both soldiers. However, Alfie does not have cancer, as I wouldn't do that to my baby. Respect to the Peaky Blinders writers, but I'm different.

“Rum’s for fun and fucking, innit? Now, whisky. That’s for business.”

This was when Tommy realized, with less than usual ambivalence, that his prospective business partner did not intend to kill him. Despite the fact that he came here alone, and was objectively small and vulnerable compared to those around him, and still had his latest bruises from his last brush with death.

He watched the man pour the whisky into two glasses, as amber as the man’s beard, as the sun hitting his hair. And he realized, oddly enough, that he was a little less neutral towards his own death than usual, for the simple reason that he wanted to do business with this man. This Alfie Solomons, the so-called Mad Jew of Camden Town.

Alfie – and privately, Tommy feels he looks more like an Alfie than a Solomons – watches Tommy down his whisky without touching his own. Tommy swallows, audibly in the silent room, without breaking eye-contact or grimacing at the bitter taste. Because if Alfie’s goal is to challenge him, he can’t show weakness. Not that he’d want to anyway.

Finally, as if on impulse, Alfie speaks. “That’s Sabini’s work, innit?” 

Tommy blinks by way of inquiry.

Without elaborating further, Alfie reaches across his own desk, and Tommy is careful not to flinch away, not to let his breath hitch – even as Alfie’s thumb, feather-light, brushes the welt still on Tommy’s cheak. It makes the flesh feel newly feverish. He can’t help but swallow as Alfie sits back, the sound once again painfully audible.

“Never did like them, his lot,” Alfie mutters, shaking his head. He sloshes his still untouched glass of whisky, watching the whirl of the liquid with a manic glint in his bearlike eyes. 

“His lot?” Tommy asks, on a whim. He finds he’s actually interested in what this man has to say.

“His lot, right. Bullies, mate, generic term though that may be. Pick on the little ones just ‘cause they’re little, and ‘cause they think they can get away with doing it. And you are little, mate,” he says, nodding as he looks Tommy over, as if confirming the fact to himself. “You’re little, but I’m betting you’ve learned to use that to your advantage, haven’t you? Deadly little thing, like one of them wild dogs that rips the guts out of larger prey.” He asks randomly, and with great concern, “Do you like dogs, Tommy?”

“Far more than people,” says Tommy, without hesitation. Because it’s true.

“Right. I figured.” Alfie nods, evidently satisfied. “Just wanted to be sure. Promised meself I’d never do business with a man who dislikes dogs, or even one who’s just ambivalent with regards to dogs, because that man, right, is a monster.”

Tommy nods, slowly, trying to determine if Alfie is joking. He certainly doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

“Right. Well, now that we’ll be working together, treacle, I do have a few conditions.”

“Conditions?” Tommy asks, unimpressed. He’s not fond of people who immediately make extra demands of him before even proving that they’re able to honor their original agreement. He didn’t expect Alfie to be his most dependable ally, but he at least expected him to be more original than that.

“Conditions, right.” Alfie eyes him with that dangerous, ursine glint. “First and foremost, right, I never want to see you banged up like this again.”

Well. That certainly was an original demand. Tommy stares at him, waiting for him to crack a smile or indicate that he’s joking, but Alfie looks deadly serious. 

“I mean it, mate,” he says, as if sensing Tommy’s inquiry. “Fierce or not, you’re only little, and I’ll bet your bones are all hollow, right, like a little light songbird. I happen to like birds, because they’re sweet and beautiful, and contrary to popular belief, I happen to enjoy sweet, beautiful things. And I get pissed off when someone hurts them. So.” Alfie polishes his half moon spectacles, which look like they would be better suited for a man twice his age. “You’re gonna have to be more careful, mate.”

Tommy just stares. Did this man just call him, the most feared and respected man in Birmingham, _sweet?_ _Beautiful_?

“Right. Now that we’re on the same page,” Alfie continues, undeterred, “I want you to take your sweet little time recovering from your bumps and bruises. And I do mean that. If I find out that you aren’t resting like you should be, mate, there will be serious consequences. When you’re well, and only when you’re well, I will then impose my third condition.”

Tommy blinks twice, slowly. 

“My third condition –” here, Alfie leans forward, his desk creaking – “is that you let me take you out to dinner.”

“Dinner,” Tommy repeats, dumbly. He’s in such shock at being spoken to this way, he doesn’t even know how to feel about it. His hands are tingling. Is that a bad thing.

“Dinner,” Alfie confirms, gravely. “Because even little birds need more meat on their bones than you got, mate. And I’ll be buying.”

Tommy swallows, again. It seems louder this time, more embarrassing. This whole situation is embarrassing. 

He’s Tommy Shelby, Gypsy King. A powerful, prowling, godlike figure that nobody dares approach. No one’s asked him out to dinner since – since, he can’t even remember when. Certainly before he fought in the military. He chooses the people he likes, when he can tell they want him, and they always come to him. 

But Alfie’s still watching him, waiting for an answer. It’s for business, he reminds himself. And it’s not necessarily romantic, sexual even – it could be that he’s egregiously misunderstanding Alfie’s intentions, and Alfie just wants a dinner appointment to go over their new strategy. Either way, there is more to be gained than lost by saying yes. 

Tommy clears his throat. “Dinner. Excellent, Mr. Solomons.”

A slow smile spreads across Alfie’s face. It’s barely visible beneath his beard, but Tommy can see the corners of his eyes crinkling. He rises, and Tommy rises with him, setting his empty glass on Alfie’s desk.

He watches Alfie prowl around the desk, and extends his hand, assuming Alfie intends to shake it. Instead, Alfie takes his hand gently in his, turning it over like a precious object.

Tommy can feel heat rising in his cheeks as Alfie leans down, as if in slow motion, and presses his lips to Tommy’s wrist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy prepares for his date and contemplates how his enemies are plotting to use this against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this a modern AU specifically so Ada can refer to Tommy as an "idiot bisexual." I will not be taking criticism at this time.

Even weeks later, Tommy can still feel it. The soft press of lips to the exposed sliver of flesh between his glove and his sleeve. The warmth of them, the tickle of the beard. He’d been so flustered, he could barely manage a goodbye. Even now, just the thought of it makes him hot with embarrassment – which, in his opinion, is absolutely ridiculous. Why should  _ he _ feel embarrassed, when Alfie – _ Solomons  _ – was the one who was acting completely unprofessional?

He tries to put it out of his mind as he goes about his business, stubbornly refusing to rest like Alfie –  _ Solomons,  _ again and again, he has to correct himself – instructed him to. Because he’s not his boss, nor is he his husband, and the request was absurd. But his bruises fade, as do his aches and pains, and he can feel confident in the fact that his alliance with Solomons will allow him to put that bastard Sabini out of business once and for all. Already, Alfie’s men are taking over Sabini’s part of town.

It’s worth his doubled workload, the paperwork and negotiations he’s forced to handle, on top of the seemingly multiplying number of family conflicts he’s forced to solve. Sometimes he wants to snap at his relatives to act like adults, but he’s learned long ago that honesty must be applied carefully and in small doses. It’s better to gently coax people, like spooked horses. 

At the end of the day, he collapses in his office chair, his head throbbing at the temples. Fuck. So much to do, so many egos to stroke, so many factors to make each business venture – legitimate or otherwise – flow smoothly. Sometimes it feels like it’s just him, all alone, against the entire world. 

He’s about to reach into his drawer for something to make the pain better, just for a little while, when his phone rings.

He’s tempted to ignore it, but he can’t. Too much at stake. 

“Hello?”

“Tommy, my boy.” 

At the sound of Alfie’s voice, the breath catches in his lungs. He inhales slowly, and tries to sound casual. “Solomons. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it depends.” There’s a somewhat disconcerting pause, and Tommy can picture Alfie’s ursine glare. “My connections, right, have told me that you’ve been a busy bee, out and about. Is that so, Tommy?”

“I have been conducting business, yes.” Tommy has to remind himself that he has no reason to feel defensive. And yet, he finds himself fidgeting as he waits for Alfie’s response.

“Well. It seems to me, mate, that you’re directly violating the rules of our arrangement.”

“I wasn’t.” Tommy says this quickly, unthinkingly, and has to take a minute to remember himself. “Our arrangement was that I take my time to recover. I’ve been taking all the time I need.”

“Seems to me, Tommy, that you’ve been acting like a little boy. A  _ bad _ little boy.” 

Alfie growls the words out now, and Tommy finds himself gripping the arm of his chair. 

“You know what happens to bad little boys?”

It takes Tommy a second to realize that the question is not rhetorical. He can hear the blood pumping in his ears. “I –”

“They get spankings, is what happens to them. That’s probably what you need, innit?” 

Tommy’s flesh feels feverish. He’s glad no one else is present to witness this, because he’s sure he’s tomato red. There’s nothing he can say to this. 

_ How fucking dare you,  _ and  _ I am the leader of the Peaky fucking Blinders,  _ and  _ You can’t fucking speak to me that way.  _ The words bubble up inside him, but fizzle into steam before they can reach his lips.

“Mm. I suppose there’ll be time for that later,” Alfie mutters, more to himself than to Tommy. And then, more briskly, “Well. Seeing as you’re up and about, I suppose I’ll collect on my other condition.”

Tommy blinks in inquiry. 

“Dinner, mate,” Alfie answers, as if he can see him. “Eight o’clock tomorrow evening – that’ll be Friday – and not a minute later.”

Tommy leans forward slowly in his chair. This feels so surreal, like the carpet of normalcy has been yanked out from under him. “And, how do you know I’ll be free?” It should be a sarcastic inquiry, but his voice sounds dreamlike.

“Just do, love.” 

With that, Alfie hangs up the phone.

* * *

Tommy spends all of that night, and most of the next day, convincing himself that he’s somehow misreading this situation. And then, that Alfie could be deliberately misleading him. By the time their date is approaching that evening, he thinks he might have a coherent theory.

“He’s trying to undermine me,” he explains to Ada that evening. He’s fresh from the shower, and buttoning his suit vest over a crisp white shirt. “Setting up this meeting as if it were a dinner date is clearly an effort to mock me.”

Ada doesn’t look up from her book. “Is it, now,” she offers, unimpressed.

“You remember Grace, don’t you?”

At this, Ada does look up. She knows Tommy well, and he never mentions Grace if he can help it. 

He averts his eyes, remembering how much he dislikes talking about this. “Her ability to appeal to my emotionality,” he continues anyway, keeping his words carefully measured, “made her a cunning and formidable enemy.”

“Not that cunning and formidable,” Ada points out, “considering she fell for you, too.”

“Yeah, well.” Tommy tugs up his sleeve garters. “Doesn’t matter, does it? It’s in the past, and she’s in America. But that doesn’t mean my enemies can’t use it as a weakness.” 

“So, let me get this straight.” Ada shuts her book. “This man expresses concern over your injuries – rightly so, I might add – and asks you out to dinner, and you interpret it as an act of malice? Because he _ somehow  _ knows about the undercover officer you had a fling with?”

He purposefully left out the kiss to his hand, let alone today’s threats of spanking, because he can barely think about them without wanting to curl into a ball and disappear forever. 

“Ada. I told you about this man. About his reputation.” Tommy reaches for his tie. “He’s not the sort of person to show up on your doorstep with flowers.”

“And, from what you told me, he, too, wants to go into legitimate business,” Ada points out. “Do something good for the world, like you. Maybe you can help each other – here, let me get that for you.” She rises and helps him loop and straighten his tie.

“I hope you understand I can do that myself,” he points out.

“I know.” She smooths his collar. “But it’s nice to have someone to do it for you.” 

And he can’t argue with that.

“Look,” Ada continues, still meeting his eyes, “he comes from a bad situation. We come from a bad situation. We’re all trying to make something better for ourselves. Just…stay on your guard, stay safe, but see what happens, for goodness sake! Don’t ruin a nice thing by being an idiot bisexual.”

“You say that as if you  _ aren’t  _ an idiot bisexual,” Tommy points out.

She shrugs. “It takes one to know one.” 

Just then, the doorbell rings, and it actually makes Tommy jump. Ada has the decency to suppress her laughter. “My God, Tom. You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” She pats his shoulder. “I’ll go see if it’s your man.” He opens his mouth, and she answers preemptively, “Don’t worry, I keep my gun hidden by the door.” 

While she’s gone, he stands there, thinking. Ada doesn’t seem to understand exactly how insane this man is. Maybe it would help if he told her every feral detail of their conversations, everything he had said, but he doesn’t want to tip Ada’s pendulum too far. Despite being the younger of the two, she’s always been protective.

As he pulls on his suit jacket, he thinks of the last time he did this before a date – even if that’s not how he thought of it at the time, just as he tries not to think of this as a date now. He was with Grace, then. He opened his heart to her, and she broke it, even if that wasn’t her intention. Even if it was just a difference in uniforms. Even if he’d broken her heart, too.

Of course, Alfie’s nothing like Grace. Whereas she was a delicate flower, sweet and deadly, Alfie is a bear. Whereas Grace concealed her danger, Alfie presented it to him like a welcome basket. Physically, he could crush Tommy, there’s no doubt about it, and his casual talk of corporal punishment provides little reassurance that he won’t.

And yet – and yet, for some reason, he wants to be near Alfie. Maybe he’s relieved to have met someone more dangerous than he is. Maybe it makes him feel like someone can protect him for once.

Ada pokes her head back up the stairs. “Oi! Your Prince Charming is here. He calls himself ‘the wandering Jew,’” she says. “And he’s brought you flowers.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy wants to treat Tommy to a lovely evening, but that doesn't mean he won't absolutely wreck him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Alfie's perspective! Nosedives into some pretty hardcore smut, but will get back to fluff for the better part of the next chapter, when Alfie and Tommy have their dinner date.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who's commented, you're the reason I update so quickly!

If Alfie has a weakness, right, it’s that he has a covetous love of beauty. Beyond what was acceptable, really. He’s got little interest in the female form, beyond its objective aesthetic appeal, which it seems is the only kind of beauty men are supposed to take interest in. No, Alfie likes the delicate kind of beauty, intricate and fragile and unique and rare. Faberge eggs, intricate fabric patterns, little songbirds with bright eyes and bobbling throats. Pretty boys with big, pretty eyes.

He’s got no interest in hiding it, no interest in being shy about it, which is all right and good, yeah, because it’s an enlightened fucking era. And anyone who fails to be enlightened towards him in this enlightened fucking era will get a complimentary broken bone, courtesy of Alfred Solomons Junior.

One such pretty thing resides in his hands, in the form of a bright blue potted hyacinth, and he deposits the plant into the hands of an even prettier thing, with eyes exactly the same color. Those eyes look up at him now, deer-wide and stunned.

“Always thought it was cruel, right, to decapitate plants and put them in bouquets to give to people,” he explains, gesturing unnecessarily to the hyacinth. “Kind of like killing them on account of being beautiful, innit?” 

Tommy stares up at him, that plush mouth hanging open. Those eyes flick down at the hyacinth, and up at Alfie, his pretty pale cheeks turning progressively dark pink. Alfie gets the sense that no one’s ever brought Tommy flowers before, which is a travesty, and one he’s more than happy to have rectified.

“I – I, um,” Tommy manages, truly living up to his reputation of eloquence and sharp wit.

“They’re lovely. Thank you, Mr. Solomons,” says The Sister, which is how Alfie thinks of her, because he didn’t catch her name. But he is confident that she’s Tommy’s sister, and not his lover or anything else so utterly unacceptable, on account of the fact that they could be twins. “I’ll put them in some sunny window,” The Sister adds, pointedly, to Tommy, “so you can go and _enjoy_ _a lovely evening._ Right, Tom?”

Tommy clears his throat. “Right. Yes. Thank you, Ada.” 

Ah, yes, Ada. So that’s her name. Makes Alfie think of a ladybug for some reason. Alfie might share this observation, but he’s eager to get his evening plans underway. “Ready to go, then, poppet?” 

Tommy glares at him sharply, or tries to, rather. Probably not too many people call him  _ poppet, _ either. “Yes. I’m sure we’ll have a productive evening.”

Ada rolls her eyes. “Have fun, be safe, call if you need anything,” she sighs, shoving him lightly as he steps out the door. 

Tommy falls into step beside Alfie, eyeing him warily, like he expects him to attack at any moment.

“Don’t worry, treacle,” Alfie assures him. “A productive evening, we will certainly have.”

* * *

Tommy tries to insist on driving, probably hoping to regain some of his famously guarded authority. 

Alfie clucks his tongue, guiding him gently but firmly into the passenger’s side. “Alfie Solomons always drives, sweetie,” he explains, in a deliberately patronizing tone. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love the glare it earned him. 

Tommy carefully surveys the inside of the car as Alfie feels around his pockets for his keys. “I hope you understand,” says Tommy, “I’m doing this for business, and for business only. I have no interest in frivolous activities, and keep professional business separate from personal life.”

“Mmm. Right. Well, the thing is, petal –” Alfie finally finds his keys, jangling them victoriously – “I’ve always had the gift of telling when others is lying. Always, since the day of me birth. And you, sweet thing –” he turns the keys in the ignition, and the engine roars to life – “are lying to yourself.”

Tommy looks at him incredulously.

“S’alright.” Alfie pats him on the shoulder. “You’ll come to realize it soon enough.”

“Because you can also see the future,” Tommy deadpans. 

“I can indeed. However did you know?” 

Tommy looks out the window, like he’s wishing he’d stayed home. “Of course you can.”

“Now. Did I happen to tell you, in our all-too-brief conversations, how I happened to get this car?”

“You did not,” sighs Tommy, “but I suppose you will.”

“Well, it was a police auction, right – I got friends in the department, counterintuitive as that may be – and this car was up for sale, and my mate standing next to me, an off-duty officer who’s on my payroll, he says to me, ‘Don’t buy this one, six people died in it.’ And that’s when I thought to meself, ‘Alfie, God himself intended for you to have this car.’ So of course I had to bid on it...”

Alfie continues talking as he drives them out of the residential neighborhood that Tommy and The Sister – what the hell’s her name again, Ladybug? Ladybird? Right, Ada – are currently inhabiting and into grassier land overlooking the water. 

“Where are we going?” Tommy finally interrupts him, just as Alfie’s about to divert to his tenth tangent in as many minutes. “There are no restaurants in this area.”

“Didn’t say I was taking you to a restaurant, did I? Said I was taking you out to dinner.” Alfie pats his thigh. “Just trust me, sweetie. You’ll have a nice time if you just learn to let go.”

Alfie leaves his hand there, deliberately resting on Tommy’s thigh. Tommy doesn’t look at it, keeps his gaze straight ahead, but his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Like a little songbird,” Alfie mutters. 

“What?” Tommy croaks, his voice even lower than usual.

“Nothing, sweetie, nothing at all.” The hand resting on him pats, and then works its way a little higher. Tommy stays completely still. They ride like that in silence for a time, the only sound in the world the hum of the car. 

Slowly, Alfie’s hand works its way higher, keeping his gaze on the road ahead, until he feels beneath his fingers the cool zipper, the soft mound of flesh beneath. He begins to rub, in soft, circular motions, and delights at the audible hitch in Tommy’s breath. He keeps it up, these teasing, gentle circles, feeling Tommy’s soft cock begin to fill through the fabric. 

He feels for the zip, ready to pull it down, when Tommy catches his wrist. Alfie glances at him, not surprised in the slightest to see Tommy glaring back, his face dark red even in the dim light of the car.

“Do you think I’m that easy to deceive?” he demands, his words carefully measured but his voice shaky, a parody of his usual veneer.

“Beg pardon, treacle?” asks Alfie, innocently.

“I know what your game is. You think you can worm your way into my mind, undermine me from the inside out. I know your sort, Solomons. Well, it won’t work. I’ll fuck you, but you should know that it’s only for business, and I keep my heart seperate from my –” Tommy’s soliloquy is cut off, quite unceremoniously, as Alfie stuffs his fingers into Tommy’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. Tommy makes a high, startled noise, outraged, but doesn’t try to pull away, doesn’t grab Alfie’s wrist.

“Now, why would you spoil such an enjoyable moment with such a silly little rant?” Alfie inquires, glancing between the road and Tommy’s outraged face. With his index and middle finger, he rubs small circles over Tommy’s velvety tongue, loving the feel of it fluttering beneath him. “I will dignify it only with this: I am not here with you to deceive you, yeah? I am here with you only because I like you. Alright?” He purposely pushes his two fingers too close to the back of Tommy’s throat, just to watch him gag a little, those pretty eyes welling. “Nod if you understand.” 

Tommy nods as best he can, gagging himself again on the fingers to do so. 

“Aren’t you quite a dear,” Alfie smiles, resuming the soft circles on Tommy’s tongue – the same sort he was rubbing on his cock just moments ago. Speaking of which, Tommy’s erection has not diminished – if anything, it seems to have increased, properly tenting the front of his pants. “Now. If you feel comfortable doing so, right, I want you to take out your cock.” 

Tommy looks at him with the eyes of a trapped rabbit. 

“I’d be doing this for you, love, if you hadn’t been such a naughty boy.” 

It takes Tommy a minute – Alfie can practically feel him warring with himself, his ego battling against his desires. Of course, desire wins. Alfie smiles at the sound of his zipper being pulled down, like an admission of defeat. He glances down to see Tommy slowly, shamefully, taking his cock in his hand – not as long as Alfie’s, shorter and plumper and uncut, pulsing softly in his hand. 

“Now,” says Alfie, glancing between this lovely sight and the road ahead, his fingers still firmly in Tommy’s mouth. “I want you, right, to begin stroking yourself. Slowly.” 

Once again, it takes Tommy a minute or two to comply, his eyes squeezing shut with shame. He makes a high-pitched noise, like a plea for help. What a beautiful fucking creature. 

“Sssshhh. You’re doing just beautiful, treacle. Precious thing you are,” Alfie murmurs. He can feel his own cock chubbing up at the sight next to him, at the feel of Tommy’s lips around his fingers, his tongue beneath them. “Just keep going. Keep yourself hard, but don’t cum. We’re almost there.” 

This might be a lie, depending on one’s perspective. They’re about ten minutes away. Every so often, Tommy’s hand will start to speed up, his body tensing, at which point Alfie will demand, “Slower.” By the time Alfie finally pulls up, Tommy is looking at him desperately. 

“S’alright, treacle. You did beautifully.” Alfie fumbles to get his seatbelt off, still keeping his fingers in Tommy’s mouth as he leans over his lap. “Hands off now, poppet. I’ll take it from here.” 

He swallows Tommy down in one practiced motion, delighting in the sound that vibrates around his fingers. He bobs his head up and down, hungry and eager, until he feels hands scrabble at his hair.

“Affie,” Tommy tries, garbling around his fingers, “I’m guh – I’m gonna –” 

Alfie briefly comes up for air. “It’s okay, lovely thing. You’re beautiful, just let go.” Even as he swallows him down one last time, he can feel Tommy’s cock pulse in his mouth, hear the noise of pleasure and despair above him. Hot, salty cum hits the back of Alfie’s throat, and he swallows every drop.

Finally, Alfie retracts his fingers as he comes up, stroking Tommy’s hair as he comes down from it. His chest and shoulders are heaving, eyes bewildered, and Alfie can’t help it. He leans over and presses his lips to Tommy’s, his tongue slipping briefly between them. Tommy can surely taste the residue of his own release, but bless him, he kisses back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy attempts to recover from a strategically disastrous evening. Alfie starts discussing wedding plans.
> 
> Clearly, they have some differences to work out.

Standing on the grassy hill by the water, Tommy averts his eyes, and tries very hard not to look like he’s purposefully averting his eyes. 

In terms of strategy, this entire evening has been a complete disaster. Never in all his life has he embarrassed himself like that – even as a child, he was ruthlessly scrupulous with his thoughts and feelings, intuitively aware that they could be used against him. How had Alfie so effortlessly stripped him of control?

And now, the bastard is spreading out a cloth on the grass, rambling about the superiority of Jewish cooking, as if he hadn’t just made Tommy come like a blushing virgin.

“I’ve heard it said, right, that limitations bring out one’s creativity. And from what I’ve learned about how you built your business, mate, that’s certainly true.” Alfie gets a large basket out of the back seat of the parked car and sets it on the cloth. “Well, it’s also true for Kosher cooking. Best in the fucking world, right, because of the guidelines we impose upon ourselves. So, my ancestors, yeah, my ancestors, these great, towering figures who wrestled with angels and giants and according to some interpretations, God himself, they thought, ‘hmm. Well, I can sit here, right, and moan about the fact that I can’t put cheese on top of beef – not that I know why anyone would want to, that’s disgusting – or eat pig – also bloody disgusting, the animal eats its own feces – or, I could make the best of the ingredients and the guidelines that our Lord has provided us.' And we did, and that’s why it’s the best in the fucking world.” 

Tommy hates the fact that no matter how nonsensical Alfie’s talk seems to be, he always finds himself interested in what he has to say. He wants to tune him out – now especially, after this evening’s indignities – but always finds himself listening.

“Sit down, dear.” Alfie begins unloading containers from the basket. This, it occurs to Tommy, is a fucking picnic. Alfie has taken him on a fucking picnic. He’s still processing this, when Alfie adds randomly, “Would you convert to Judaism, Tommy?”

“Excuse me?”

“If we’re to marry, I want you to convert to the Jewish religion,” says Alfie, his prominent brow furrowed and his tone almost comically grave. Is he joking? Tommy can never tell. “Me mother was absolutely fine with the fact that I prefer men, right, but she made me swear on her deathbed I’d never marry some Gentile.”

Tommy somehow doubts the authenticity of this claim, but he’s more preoccupied with the audacity of Alfie’s line of reasoning. “Alfie, you sucked my cock. Once. I’m not going to fucking marry you.”

“Nah, you are, mate. I’ve decided,” says Alfie, with a dismissive gesture. “And being as I can see the future, I know it’s just a matter of time to catch up with my reasoning.”

Tommy stares at him, telling himself that the mad bastard has to be joking.  _ Has  _ to be. No one’s _ this _ crazy.

“So, when the time comes –” Alfie finishes unloading the basket – “I want to be certain that you will no longer be Gentile, just so’s I can keep my word.” 

Tommy doesn’t want to dignify Alfie’s absurd line of questioning, but seeing as he’s stranded out here with him – Alfie does have the keys, after all – he decides it’s in his best interests to go along with it. “All religion is meaningless to me. So I would have little issue substituting one for the other.”

Alfie scoffs. “Oh, fuck off with that, Tommy. Being angry at God ain’t the same thing as being an atheist.” He unstacks two little plates, and unwraps some forks from cloth napkins. “Well, in any case, I’m glad to see you’re open to continued discussions of the matter.” He lowers his voice, conspiratorially. “Though between you and me, mate, if I had to choose between your hand in marriage and my dear mother’s dying wish, I’d certainly pick you.”

“Would you,” Tommy deadpans. 

“Mm. If she’d’ve seen you, she’d understand. And also between you and me, I rather like that you’re not circumcised.”

Aside from the fact that Alfie is talking about Tommy’s cock directly after a conversation about his religion and his dead mother, this brings the eventful drive to the surface of Tommy’s memory. The achingly slow slide of his own hand, desperate to come but not daring to. Alfie’s glittering, predatory eyes.

Tommy feels the heat rising in his neck, and wishes there were someplace to hide.

“Well, sit down here, you silly thing, I won’t bite.” Alfie pats the ground next to him with such an exaggerated look of innocence that Tommy can’t help but feel he _ will _ bite. And yet, he finds himself reluctantly kneeling next to Alfie anyway on the thick plaid picnic cloth.

“There’s a good boy.” Alfie, demonstrating his remarkable lack of social propriety once again, runs his thick fingers through Tommy’s hair, down the short stubble on the back. 

Tommy shivers, and attributes this to the cold night air. 

“Alright, then, dig in. I recommend you start with the latkes, dear, they never disappoint.”

Tommy looks at the basket of potato pancakes in question, golden brown and glistening. They look delicious, but so rich. Hunger had been his baseline state as a child, and he’d never gotten used to feeling full. During his years of military service, he found he had even more difficulty keeping food down, before the adrenaline sent it back up again.

But Alfie is looking at him, waiting, fingertips still lingering at the back of his neck. Tommy picks one up, grimacing slightly at the texture of oil, and bites in. Immediately, his eyes go wide. “It’s delicious,” he says, because it is. 

Alfie smiles, eyes glittering. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, dear,” he says, in what is surely a deliberately patronizing tone. 

For good measure, he thumbs at some surely nonexistent crumb on Tommy’s lower lip. Because there’s just no end to tonight’s humiliations, it would seem. Tommy would stop eating out of spite, but he finds he doesn’t want to. For the first time, something’s too good to resist eating.

“Never forget the first time I made these.” Alfie is eating too now, and Tommy notes somewhat resentfully that he’s talking with his mouth full. “Was left in charge of my little nephew Ishmael, couldn’t even remember who his mum was. My father, you see, was a maker of bastards the likes of which hadn’t been seen since Genghis fucking Khan, truly mythic, mate. And he kept going on and on about his mummy’s fucking recipe, and there only seemed to be one thing that’d calm him down…”

And so Alfie talks, and eats, and Tommy listens, and eats. It’s easy to let his mind be carried away on Alfie’s ramblings, he finds. Every so often, Alfie will hand him some new dish and instruct him to eat it, and Tommy does, and it goes on like this for an indeterminate period of time.

“I feel odd,” he realizes, thinking aloud. 

Alfie, pausing mid-sentence, eyes him scrupulously. “You’re full, mate,” he surmises. Tommy’s about to deny it, but he realizes it’s true. “When was the last time you’ve eaten your fill, eh? Answer me that.”

“Fuck off.” Tommy feels around for his cigarette case. “I eat when I need to.”

“You eat when you have to, more like. And no smoking, mate, won’t have you polluting yourself in my presence,” he adds, as if realizing Tommy’s intentions. 

Tommy turns to glare at him, awfully tired of being told what to do, but Alfie is eyeing him thoughtfully, indifferent to Tommy’s scorn. 

“Little thing like you, probably does ten times the damage,” he murmurs, and lets one of his hands slide up Tommy’s flank, exploratory. Tommy doesn’t flinch away. “Could lift you like a feather, couldn’t I?”

Tommy swallows. He’s always been on the small side – small for a child, small for his age, small for a man – but it’s been so long since anyone’s remarked on it. The world clears a path for him like he’s enormous, he’d forgotten he could feel small in comparison to someone else.

Alfie loops his arm around Tommy’s waist, tugging him closer. He lets himself be moved, fascinated by it, by Alfie’s strength. “You need to be more careful with yourself,” Alfie informs him. “I told you that. Didn’t I?” 

He’s centimeters away, close enough for his breath to tickle. It takes Tommy a minute to remember to be annoyed by this line of questioning. “I can protect myself, Solomons.”

“Mm. Yeah, clearly, mate. Which is why you were teetering around, bruised and battered, doing business right after Sabini brutalized you?” Alfie’s voice is low now, dark like the night sky. “On that note, I think we discussed some form of punishment for that, didn’t we? Some form of retribution?”

The phone conversation. Shit. Tommy tries to yank away, but Alfie holds him tight, inches away from those glittering, deep-set eyes. “Now, where do you think you’re going?” Alfie leans in close, his beard tickling Tommy’s ear. “You had dinner, treacle. Wouldn’t want to skip dessert.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will nosedive into smut again, and will be told from Alfie's point of view. Thank you all for the amazing comments and kudos thus far, they keep me posting!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy gets his punishment, and enjoys it more than he'd like anyone to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly Alfie's POV, with a section from Tommy at the end. Lot's of dom/sub in this one, surprise surprise! The next chapter is more of an epilogue, and a return to fluff.

Tommy is still squirming, struggling against him, though there’s desire in his eyes. Probably worried about his punishment, though Alfie hasn’t the faintest idea why. He knows, through his masterful perceptive abilities, that Tommy is the sort that would quite enjoy punishment.

“Ssshh, no need for any of that,” he soothes, pressing kisses along Tommy’s jaw. “I’ll go easy on you your first time, yeh? Won’t put you over my knee or use a belt or nothing.”

Tommy doesn’t seem entirely convinced, for who knows what reason, but he melts into Alfie’s kisses anyway. He bares his neck for easy access, and Alfie is more than happy to oblige him, peppering the delicate flesh with soft, wet kisses.

He takes the opportunity to unbuckle Tommy’s belt, pausing to grope his cock, pleased – if not surprised in the slightest – to find it already half-hard. Lips never moving far from his delectable throat, Alfie reaches into his own back pocket for a small bottle of lube. He holds it up to Tommy’s view by way of explanation. 

“Turn around,” he instructs, using his bossiest tone, and doesn’t miss the way Tommy’s eyes darken with arousal. It must be refreshing, Alfie supposes, to finally have someone to tell him what to do. 

Still, Tommy hesitates, his mind warring with his instincts. No matter. Alfie grabs his waist and gently but firmly flips him over, forcing him onto his hands and knees to steady himself. 

“ _ Oh. _ ” The little sound leaves Tommy’s mouth, almost imperceptible, but goodness if it doesn’t go straight to Alfie’s cock.

“Mm. Yeah, you like that,” Alfie murmurs, fumbling to get Tommy’s pants down. “You like that I’m stronger than you, that it?”

“I’m moved because I allow myself to be moved,” Tommy protests, voice breathless, indignant. “A real fight would be significantly different, Solomons.” 

“Mmhmm. I’m sure.” Alfie’s a bit preoccupied admiring Tommy’s lovely, pert bottom. He presses gently down on Tommy’s lower back, causing his back to arch, his arse presenting itself even more invitingly. “There’s a good boy.”

He wastes no time in slicking up his fingers, eager for entry, running them over that lovely, puckered hole a few times before pushing one inside. 

“Fuck,” Tommy whispers, head hanging between his shoulders. 

But it’s not clenched the way Alfie expected, and he raises his eyebrows. “You like having things up your arse, do you?”

“Shut up. This isn’t a common occurrence.” Tommy’s voice gets shaky as Alfie begins to slowly push his fingers in and out, stroking and curling. “I can use my body to make a deal, if need be. I do what is needed of me.”

“Is that so? You mean to tell me that you don’t like this?” He reaches ‘round and grabs Tommy’s marble-hard dick, smiling as it jumps in his hand. “Part of you certainly likes this.” 

Tommy doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t move, clearly mortified. 

“S’okay, treacle.” Alfie removes his hand from Tommy’s cock and smooths it soothingly over his bare arse. The middle finger of his other hand has never left the splendid heat of his areshole. “I like this, too. Like having you like this. And you’re about to discover just how much.”

He begins to move his finger again, carefully loosening the muscle, before working a second finger inside. He curls and twists them, memorizing which movements make Tommy squirm and tense and whine. He knows exactly when he’s found Tommy’s prostate, because he makes a sound somewhere between ecstasy and despair. 

Alfie suppresses a groan of his own. He wouldn’t normally have an issue with admitting his own desperation, but right now, his goal is to get Tommy to admit his. He wants to completely strip him of his power, leave him bare, unable to escape from how much he wants this. 

This gives Alfie an idea. 

Slowly, achingly, he slides his fingers out, and doesn’t miss how Tommy clenches down on them and groans, in a futile effort to prevent their loss. Then, Alfie unzips himself and takes out his own turgid erection, holding its head against Tommy’s glistening, worked-open arsehole. 

Tommy looks over his shoulder with a beautifully helpless expression. 

“Fuck yourself on it,” Alfie instructs him. And then, just for humiliation's sake, “I’m not doing all the work while you moan into the blanket like a little slag.” He slaps him on the arse for good measure. 

And Tommy does look mortified, and outraged, as Alfie knew he would. Alfie would be concerned about pushing him too far, but what’s he going to do? Leave, jack off somewhere alone? Alfie has the car, and the keys. One way or the other, Tommy is going to have to admit his desire. 

And he does. Closing his eyes tight, hair falling over his face, he pushes himself back against Alfie’s erection, still poised and ready, right at his arsehole. Alfie shudders with pleasure as he feels the tight stretch of hot flesh around him, watching it swallow his girth. 

“That’s it, lovely thing, keep going.” He refuses to move, leaving it to Tommy to do all the work. Every centimeter he takes is an admission of how much he wants it. 

As he bottoms out, lovely cheeks pressed against Alfie’s hipbones, Tommy makes a high, keening sound – rather like the one he made in the car, yeah, except more desperate this time. Almost hurt. Alfie would bet that if he touched Tommy’s cock, the poor thing would probably come right this minute.

“Move,” Tommy finally manages, voice high as a newborn kitten. “Fucking move.”

Alfie chuckles, barely coherent himself. Tommy’s quivering and twitching around his girth, humbled, defeated. Or almost defeated, rather. 

Alfie lifts his hand, and smacks Tommy’s arse. Hard. Hard enough to leave a pink handprint behind.

Tommy gasps and looks up, outraged. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Instead of answering right away, Alfie just gives the other cheek the same treatment. “I think it’s pretty obvious, innit, mate?” He repeats the action on both cheeks, faster and harder.

“Fuck –” Tommy gasps, and has to collect himself. Alfie gives him no time to, just picks up his rhythm, smacks punctuating the silent world. 

Tommy starts trying to crawl away, on instinct more than anything, probably, but Alfie just reaches forward and grabs him by the hair, bowing his back and making him gasp. 

“You disobeyed me, Tommy,” Alfie growls, barely able to contain himself. With each slap, Tommy’s little hole clenches around him, desperate. “I told you to rest, didn’t I? After what Sabini’s men did to you?”

Tommy squeaks out, “I –” 

“Shut up, mate, it’s a rhetorical question. Do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

“Of course I fucking –”

“Well, evidently you don’t, mate, because that was a rhetorical question, too.”

Tommy makes a high-pitched sound of anger. Even now, Alfie delights in being able to get under his skin. “Now,” Alfie pants, invigorated, “shut up and take your punishment, like a good little boy.”

And Alfie gives it to him, one unforgiving hand knotted firmly in Tommy’s hair, the other relentlessly alternating between each of his cheeks, getting them nice and pink, then red. Tommy’s small, hurt sounds slowly turn into gasps, then to soft, stifled moans. 

Eventually, Alfie feels a faint rocking motion against his hips, and realizes Tommy – while still being spanked – is fucking himself on Alfie’s cock. Slowly at first, and then, like a boulder rolling unstoppably down a hill and gaining momentum, faster, harder, as much as Alfie’s grip on his hair will allow, his hips twitching like a rabbit.

“You like this,” Alfie surmises, delighted. 

“Fuck you.” To Alfie’s surprise, Tommy practically sobs the words out, clearly mortified by his body’s reaction. But his hips never stop moving. “I fucking hate this.” 

Alfie pauses in his spanking to reach between Tommy’s legs and tease his cock, hard and twitching and leaking. “I can tell, sweetie.”

Tommy does sob at that, and Alfie takes pity on him, letting go of his hair and letting him collapse onto his forearms. “S’okay, lovely thing. It’s good you like it,” Alfie grunts, resuming his slaps. “I love that you like it.” 

Alfie keeps it up until he realizes he’s close to blowing his own load. Only then does he reach down and provide Tommy with a loose fist to thrust into. And he does, uncontrollably, until he spends himself in Alfie’s hand with a low, broken cry. 

Finally, Alfie allows himself to grab Tommy’s hips and fuck roughly into him like he’s wanted to do all evening, relishing every soft grunt he can force out of Tommy’s small, spent body. He empties himself into Tommy’s arse with a groan. 

* * *

Tommy expected to be angry at Alfie, after what he just put him through. He’s not. Maybe that should be concerning to him.

And yet, he let Alfie rearrange him, spent and boneless, so their lying side by side, and he’s tucked into the crook of Alfie’s arm. He radiates heat, like a hibernating bear. 

All his life, whenever he trusted something, it always hurt him. His father, every time he came home drunk, till he didn’t come home at all. His mother, who was his best friend, until she was beating him with a frying pan. Until she walked into the canal and didn’t come out. His country, which chewed him up and spat him out for fighting to protect it. Grace. 

He promised himself he’d never be that vulnerable again. But Alfie didn’t leave him any choice, did he? Maybe that’s a blessing. 

Alfie says nothing, though Tommy knows he’s awake. For once, he has no idea what’s going on in this man’s head. 

They just lie there, together, as the stars look back at them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, Tommy is forced to contend with what he's just learned about himself. And maybe how he feels about Alfie.

Tommy blinks open his eyes to sunlight spilling over him. The world seems brighter, he realizes, the colors more saturated. Something’s different. He certainly slept better than usual. Maybe that’s it.

Only when he scoots into a sitting position, and winces at the pain in his backside. Then, and only then, do the events of last night flood back to him. He remembers being on all fours, his dick so hard it ached, arse filled with Alfie’s cock, letting himself be spanked. 

The memory is so mortifying, he actually collapses back on the bed and curls in on himself. Why had he let Alfie treat him like that? Or even  _ see _ him like that? The closest he had come to showing any level of vulnerability was with Grace, and look how that turned out. He hadn’t even let anyone see him cry since the military. 

Alfie had stripped him so bare, had allowed him to hide nothing. He should be plotting this man’s assassination. And yet, he’s just had the best night’s sleep of the past decade.

“Fucking witchcraft,” he mutters, forcing himself to role out of bed.

* * *

Tommy tugs on his sleeve garters as he steps into the kitchen, where Ada is making coffee. 

Tommy looks around. “Where’s Karl?” 

“Morning to you too, you git,” Ada huffs. “He’s still in bed, it being a Saturday. Not everyone’s as industrious as you.” 

Tommy detects a hint of sarcasm, but elects to ignore it, sitting down instead to read the relevant sections of the newspapers. He winces as he sits down, and feels himself flush anew as the memory of last night is brought back to him.

“Had a good night, then?” 

Tommy looks up, flustered by the inquiry. “What?”

“Your date,” Ada clarifies, innocently. She sets a mug of coffee down in front of him. “Made one for you, too,” she adds, as an aside. “You didn’t get back till late.”

“No.” Tommy unfurls his newspaper quickly, eager to be obscured from view, but trying not to show it. “Mr. Solomons is an interesting man. Partnership with him could prove lucrative to the business.”

“Hmm. I’m sure.” 

Ada’s tone is unbearably smug. Tommy almost wants to tell her the details of their eventful first date, just to watch her jaw drop and demonstrate what an absolute lunatic Alfie Solomons is. 

But just thinking of what Alfie did to him, what he did for Alfie, makes his whole body feel inflamed. Like his bruised cheek, after it had been brushed by Alfie’s fingertips on the first day they met. 

Tommy sips his coffee, hoping it will extinguish whatever strange fire this is. 

* * *

Ada put the hyacinth in Tommy’s home office, in the window, right where he can see it. He’ll take care of it, of course. It’s an innocent lifeform, and it can’t help if it was a present from that bastard Solomons. 

That bastard Solomons, with his big, gentle hands, who arranged Tommy like he weighed nothing. That bastard Solomons, whose eyes changed like the ocean: they could look sea green one minute, and dark and glittering and hungry the next. Beautiful and terrifying either way.

Tommy thinks of Alfie as he waters the plant, checks for wilting petals. Its flowers are so blue. Do his eyes really look like that to Alfie?

_ Solomons, _ he thinks, shaking his head vigorously. His name is  _ Solomons,  _ and he’s a bastard. And he hasn’t even called yet. 

* * *

Alfie still hasn’t called that evening, which normally wouldn’t be a cause for concern. But this is uncharted territory for Tommy – he’s not used to this absence of control. 

He undresses for bed and lies splayed on his sheets, considers reaching for his pipe, but it doesn’t feel like what he needs. He isn’t in pain right now. He’s just – open, like a crab who’s just shed its shell. He doesn’t know what this feeling is. It’s new to him.

He thinks back to the drive home with Solomons, his arse hurting with each bump in the road. Alfie had winced at him, somewhere between mocking and sincere. “Next time, I’ll rub some lotion on that for you, treacle.”

And Tommy had just nodded, still sated, all the fight fucked out of him. He could have lain with Alfie on that beach forever. The only reason they’d gotten up was because Tommy had started to drift off, and Alfie had said something about the night air being bad for his sciatica. 

Maybe it was just his polite way of saying he didn’t want to see Tommy again. Why would he, after Tommy had humiliated himself like that? He hadn’t even challenged Alfie, hadn’t been anywhere close to a match for him. It had probably disappointed him.

Tommy cups himself under the cool blankets, thinks of Alfie’s hands knotted in his hair, his cock filling him, as unbendable as steel. He’d been powerless. Tommy thinks of that as he coaxes himself to hardness. 

Even now, he’s ashamed of his body’s reaction, at how much he wants it to happen again. At how much he’d love to go to sleep in Alfie’s arms afterwards.

* * *

The next day, Tommy’s doorbell rings. He makes sure his gun is loaded, and carefully concealed, before answering. 

A tall, dark haired man in his mid twenties looms over him. Tommy recognizes him immediately from his hapless expression, like a boy who’s just arrived at the wrong school. 

“Hi. I’m, um, Ollie. You probably don’t remember me, but –” 

“You’re Alfie’s man,” Tommy surmises, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “Can I help you?”

“I’m to give you this. He didn’t offer an explanation,” Ollie hands him a small box. “But don’t worry, it’s not a bomb or nothing. It’s from the bakery.”

Tommy accepts it warily. “The bakery?”

“The actual bakery,” Ollie clarifies, twiddling his fingers. “Not the rum distillery that he calls a bakery to be funny.”

Tommy wasn’t aware that Alfie, in addition to his rum distillery, owned an actual bakery. “Thank you,” he says. “You can go.” 

Ollie skitters away, glancing over his shoulder as he goes. It’s good to know that he hasn’t lost his ability to intimidate people.

Tommy locks the door behind Ollie, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. Inside are pastries shaped like crescent moons, that look a little like chocolate croissants, and a note. The note reads, in Alfie’s scrawled handwriting:

_ A gift of rugelach, for my darling future husband.  _

_ Let us break bread together once again. _

_ I’ll pick you up next Friday, at the same time. Be ready. _

_ Warmly,  _

_ Alfie Solomons _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, liking, and commenting, everyone! I will definitely write and post more fics within this AU soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur voice: remember to like and comment, by order of the Peaky FOCKING Blinders!


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